i am in the lowest of the abyss
that whilst i struggle to resurrect to bliss
i know someone has been whispering to me
in celebration of my failure to Thee

i come in white, wavering across my body
well-aware that i am no longer worthy
i struggle a fight in the darkness
but today, I insist I win.

I burn **** between my lips.
one by one.
******* them down with skill.
Skull to lungs,
ashes to ashes.
I am the smoke of myself that  
gathers deep inside
and prowls out, darkly
like faceless men at night
sunken in city pavement,  
pacing towards desire.
And so the word saunters and spirals,
clouding upwards
from my red hot tongue.
I watch it as it leaves me.
I lick my lips of the sting,
and ash drips on my shoe.
I take a deeper breath.
and look ahead.
perhaps smiling,
perhaps darkly.
As it twists itself into nothingness,
sinking headlong,  
like the private history that it is,
into the ignorant, pretty sky above.

Ever feel like the ceiling and floor are squeezing you in the in between space?
The past just wont let you rest...
The present seems empty with the missing pieces of the past.
Glimmers of happiness keep you on the edge...
Chains tugging,
Inner demons fighting,
Trying to resist and not succumb.

You crave and yet resist those things; that take you from what's good, 'till something better takes another other and seems again anew
How often times the image thought supreme to it's ideal
Tryin to change one to form another "other" that seems again anew
Are you another one of my symbols?
Is this another one of my images?
Archetypes they tell me and I'm somewhere in between

I refuse to be imprisoned by them;
Formed in a spring of meaning
And specificity;
Then gradually
Sculpted, sanded and smoothed
In the oppressive surf of banality.

Woman. Wife. Mother.
Genius. Fat. Beautiful.
Liberal. Conservative.

I won’t let them
Bend me at the waist
Bow my head
Contort my arms

Define me.

Instead I return to the spring

plunge in

dissolve


emerge



a mist.

The American people are lotuses
Grown out of the murk
We’re periwinkle pretty, but we have residue on some of our petals
And one could drain the swamp, but we’d still be in it, withering in the harsh sunlight
They could select only the fairest lotuses to be preserved, but nature would be disturbed, mutated
The indigo birds that drink our nectar would be betrayed
Then they too would leave us
And leave the aphids without prey
In the absence of deep pink flowers nature would start to cave in on itself and white-hot turmoil would fester and procreate
So invaluable to us is our gradient of flowers
They were meant to be part of our roots, their magentas and mauves keep us balanced
Keep us from turning over into the muddy water where sunlight cannot grace our petals.